


In dreams

by Souja



Series: Life's more fun when you're dead [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce is there for the whole thing but he gets a minor role, Gen, its v general, playing with an idea again, plot doesn't really exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13569702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souja/pseuds/Souja
Summary: Thomas and Martha like family breakfasts





	In dreams

\--

_Sometimes the eyes play tricks._

\--

 

Thomas and Martha Wayne tiptoed like mice, carefully avoiding the third and twenty-fifth floorboards from habit. When they weren't hushing one another, they were giggling. Martha would talk, an idle word about a new photo on the wall, and Thomas would hush her by pointing to the undisturbed mount of sleeping son and blankets. Or Thomas would talk, an excited prattle, and Martha would press a hand to his face.

It was tradition, kind of, to wake Bruce up and lead him downstairs for a tiny family breakfast. They occurred with no rhyme or reason, sometimes including Alfred and sometimes not. Sometimes breakfast was actually dinner, and other times it happened at the break of dawn.

Light from lamp posts freckled in through the partially-closed windowpane, leaving tiny, yellow streaks on rumpled sheets. They converged at what _might_ have been a head, or at least the place where the disorder smoothed out to a round-ish lump next to a small whirl of duvet. A single foot peeked out, exposed, and Thomas almost wanted to reach out and tickle his son awake. Bruce would stare at him with sleep heavy in his eyes and he’d grin, blaming it on the monster in the closet with a troublesome streak of mischief.

A look from his wife halted that, though, and Thomas frowned as his Martha took easy steps toward the foot of the bed. She looked put together as always, her hair styled away from her face, the mystery of how she did so without pins still confounding him. A miracle had batted her clothes into order after their last...adventure. An eyebrow raised in silent question--Martha waved it away, finding a seat beside the probably-head of the bed. She gestured towards their son, nodding just an inch.

For picturesque a minute they paused, just him and his wife and their son in the almost-dark room. He didn’t snore, not really, just punctuated the air with familiar, warm breaths. Twilight drew near and despite the fondness bubbled in his stomach, Thomas took his place.The day would soon begin, after all. Such moments grew rare as the years went by.

Bruce tended to wake easier now. And while it was nice to spend time with him in his alert state, there was something lovely to leading him down while his mind still buzzed with what they hoped were sweet dreams. Waking him was the trick that had taken almost-too-long to master.

A slight cough from Martha brought his attention back from memory lane. The moment was pocketed for a rainy day. Knowing Gotham, they came in excess.

Removing the sheets needed to be done slowly, else Bruce would rise, alerted, and be inconsolable. And his _grip,_  irritatingly strong, had to be worked against in increments, else Bruce would roll over and progress would be lost.

First he worked at revealing the head--he pulled back the duvet until tangled black hair greeted them. Martha took to it with her fingertips, gently pulling at snags and murmuring softly. She talked about the day that was coming, the days that had passed. Was he okay? She was sorry that they hadn’t been there in a while, but some things couldn’t be helped. Was he treating Alfred well? Bruce exhaled what could have been answers and craned toward her hand. Thomas worked the rest of the blankets away from a now-relaxed fist.

The rest was easy. Thomas sat opposite his wife, watching instead of proceeding. Time had gotten away from them again. Christmas felt like it was yesterday, but New Years had rushed right past them. Was it February already? His gaze dropped to his sleeping son. He was so _big_ now, no longer the little baby they’d bundled and blundered with. Thomas brushed back a lock that Martha had missed. Bruce was a _young man_.

“Thomas,” whispered Martha. Her lips pursed, just a bit, and a quick peek through the blinds saw that the sky had turned a shade of blush pink. Light from outside posts mingled with that of the world around it. A sigh grumbled on the tip of his tongue.

“Bruce,” he called, “Bruce, my boy, it’s time to wake up.”

Would he roll away this time? Retreat into the covers like a tiny turtle? Or maybe that bizarre combination of both he’d executed on Thanksgiving?

Bruce did neither. “Don’t _wan to,_ ” came the sleep-drenched reply, and Bruce shifted away from him, into Martha’s hand and the other side of the pillow. Part of the next sentence was buried into the cotton fabric, “ _\--minutes.”_

Martha snorted and Thomas coughed his offence. In as much as they wished to indulge him, time was not on their side.  

Three more tangles came apart under Martha’s careful ministrations. “Sweetheart,” she cooed, low and quiet, as if the world, the house, and all the other rooms did not exist, and she only needed the slightest of sound to make her words heard, “we need to go. We can’t stay that long.”

Bruce made a very convincing elephant noise, somewhere between a whimper and a plea, but he didn’t move.

“Come on chap, you’re too big for us to carry,” Thomas interjected, the humor he was going for coming out strained. And then he moved, rubbing a circle at the exposed back, “Help us out.”

It must’ve reached him in his little dream world, because Bruce relented, sitting upright.

 _“‘Mup.”_ he muttered, though his eyes were still closed. “‘M up.”  

Thomas gestured for his wife. “You’re the favourite,” he teased, careful not to jostle Bruce more than they already had.

 

\--

 

The stairs had always been a formidable foe. On late nights in particular, when they were a daunting force, a mountain to scale at the end of a hard day. Their own personal Everest with red trim and hardwood floors. Bruce balanced between them. Thomas guarded his front while Martha took his back. Thomas feared being unable to catch him more than he feared that he would fall, but he did his duty vigilantly. He only stole one glance around the house, when a small ornamental vase caught his eye.

“Ugh,” he gasped, aghast. The house echoed it back to him in equal measure.

Martha might have quirked an eyebrow at him, but it was hard to tell in the dim lowlight. Bruce stepped down two more rungs. “What is it?” she asked in a rushed whisper, “What’s wrong?”

“That _vase_.”

A stifled cough. “My God Thomas. _Now?”_ she knew the vase in question, had heard almost every tirade there was about the thing. But Bruce was there, and the remaining rungs of stairs were _plenty._ “That thing’s been there _forever._ You _grew up_ with it.”

“And I hated it then!” his eyes fixated on the-- _dull green? Puke yellow?_ “What on Earth possessed them to get it?” Because it certainly hadn’t been the aesthetics. Bruce stepped twice more, the front foyer coming closer.  

“Maybe it matched the upholstery!”

“It _didn’t.”_ he insisted, his whispers harsh and fundamentally bothered by its continued existence. _Dull green._ How absurd. “Bruce. _Bruce._ In the morning I want you to get rid of that vase.” His sons eyes were closed, but he gestured to it anyway, “That ugly one. You can’t see it, but you’ll know the one once you do. It's an abomination.”  

“You’re a foolish man, Thomas Wayne.”  

Martha’s naysaying fell on deaf ears. “Replace it with something better. I can’t do it, son, I won’t be here. Can you do that for me? Can you do that for your old man?”

Bruce’s feet touched cold hardwood at last, and a noise grumbled in the back of his throat.

“Thank you, my boy.”

Martha shook her head, angling Bruce toward the kitchen.

 

\--

 

It was nice to see that the kitchen hadn’t changed, even better that most of the utensils were more or less the same. The sort that were easy for them to use without resorting to sorcery or trickery, or however the hell Alfred managed to get things done. The problem was ingredients and their hard to maneuver packages.

Fruits and vegetables tended to work out better than most other dishes. Scrambled eggs had lasted Martha through tough times, but these days it seemed almost too much a hassle to locate the frying pan from where Alfred had spirited it away. And though Thomas was immensely proud of his pancakes, the ensuing mess was hard to explain.  

Capable as they were, they were limited in the face of the new things. A niggling suspicion said Alfred had probably prepared the days meals in advance, had placed them in strategic containers with properly labeled lids. But if all Bruce could feed on was Ovaltines and oranges, it would have to be enough.

They split up, Martha attacking fruits with an orange pairing knife. Thomas, meanwhile, made way for the cupboards.

Plates chattered against each other, making ruckus as Thomas searched for Bruce’s--a dark grey one that he almost didn’t notice between the rainbow of red, green, blue and others. An uproar arose as he reached for it, and Thomas held his breath. A glance over his shoulder saw Martha with two oranges and an apple balanced in her hands. Her face was abstract painting of “what the hell, Tommy” and pockets of concern that only softened when he pulled out the dish and waved exaggeratedly.

A grin stole across her face as she turned away, busy. And for his part, Thomas moved his chosen to the countertop. The characteristic logo had begun to fade, leaving only the ghost of what had once been. Just the barest inclination that it had once been there, in flecks of chipped paint. Tired fingers traced nostalgic trails.

He used to think the robbers he had to fear were desperate people, or unkind people. The kind that lurked in Gotham’s streets, the kind they wanted to _help._ And they’d done so busily while being robbed blind by Time itself.

“Damn it.”

A caustic bite curled Martha’s words and shook Thomas from his thoughts. The world had exploded in the softest shade of blue, so gentle against the wood of the floor, the cabinets, the table where Bruce had settled.

“Every _time,_ ” she bit again, making quick steps from the counter to the table. Orange peels still clutched to the fruit, dangled through one of Martha’s translucent hands, “ _damn.”_

Thomas moved like life had been breathed back into him. Bruce’s plate was picked up by trembling fingers. He shook, ever so slightly, and adjusted his grip. “How much time do we have?”

“Not enough,” she said, and then she added, “Minutes? Maybe seconds.”

“Seconds. Alright.” He could do pressure. The phasing happened just as he reached the table, so Bruce’s plate landed harmlessly on the red placemat they’d managed to find. Most things were the same --the stove, the cabinets, the counters-- but utensils and decorations tended to be a toss up. Sometimes they could touch them, other times not.

Bruce stirred, just a little, raising his head from the table.

Martha’s orange placed next to halved apples. There was a glaring space where a drink was supposed to go, but last Thanksgiving had stripped them of that luxury when the children had broken the last mug they could touch. It’d been replaced in a sugar-sweet gesture, but it meant the distance grew, just a bit.

With every year, every new addition to the household, things were moved. Finding them ate away at precious few hours.

A hand tangled in his, and Martha gestured toward the table where their son mapped tired circles into his eyes. He looked so old, now, had officially outlived them both in age and actuality. His head stayed in his hands, as if almost too heavy for him to lift alone. Thomas’ heart broke for his son.

“Bruce,” Martha said, urgency dripping from her words, “It’s time to wake up now. We have to go.”

Humming echoed down the stairs, off the high walls and empty spaces. Bruce’s eyes blinked open, but closed once more. His lips smacked as he began to roll his joints.

“Take care.” Thomas gripped Martha’s hand tighter, more for himself than for her or anyone else. “We’re very proud of you, son.”

“Goodbye.”

 

\--

 

Before the family awoke, Alfred liked to spend some time by himself. Reading, usually, or preparing for the day. Today he’d cut that time in half at Tim’s request. He wanted to do--something for Bruce. It was a special day and all, and he thought he’d like it so--and he _totally_ didn’t to help for the whole thing, just to get him started on working the oven and he’d be gold and--.

Who was he to give up to opportunity to bake with one of his adopted grandsons? “That’s _preposterous,”_ he’d said, purposefully stern. He relented, just a little, when Tim’s eyebrows quirked with a telling worry. “It would be my _honour_ to assist you.”

Which was to say that when he heard the clattering of plates from the floor below, he’d expected that Tim had already roused and was busily digging through his cupboards like some kind of rodent. And though he’d told him --precisely-- that they’d begin at seven, he shouldn’t have believed the boys’ excitement would hold till then. His mistake.

But Timothy’s door was closed, no light filtering from underneath the wooden slab. Though not always so, it was generally a pretty good indicator that he had yet to wake up. A chill skirted down his arm at the sound of the chair scraping.

He backstepped, made way for the security system disguised as a thermostat. The mint surface stared solemnly, lacking any bat-indicator that there’d been _guests_.

But who would it be then? If not Timothy, then…

Oh.

And the air was ushered out of his lungs, the height from his shoulders, and the pep from his steps. Alfred cascaded down the stairs three at a time, his presence more urgent than he’d been falsely lead to believe.   

Bruce was at the table when he reached the kitchen. _This time_ there were no peels on the floor, though he did spy a small mound of orange in a bowl on the counter. A matching set was before him, on a rag made from worn placemats. He shifted his weight, making himself particularly noticeable as he entered the kitchen.

“Rough night, Bruce?” he asked, his voice softer than he usually let it. Autopilot sent him to the sink for a glass of water. Bruce grunted, predictably. The water _rushed_ , sounding decibels louder in the tensed quiet.

“‘Had a dream, Alfred.”

“Oh?”  _Again,_ he wanted to say. But his eyes were on the crooked peels, their matching apple counterparts and the tiny splot of stickiness on his countertop. It'd been a while since it last happened. Last time it was banana peels and tiny grape stems that'd found home on his counter. Bruce had been on the floor, last time, bent over and picking stray fruit. Silence worked a little better, sometimes. "I trust it was a good one." 

Bruce grunted, tired. “How soon can we get rid of Aunt Margaret’s vase?”

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> based loosely off an idea i had with a friend once upon a time


End file.
